


Falling, Fallen

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Clothed Sex, Floor Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6986221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is not good at waiting.  Anders shows him a little of the benefits of patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling, Fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earlgreyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer/gifts).



> From a song prompt from Earlgreyer; the song was ['Falling for You' ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CjOIQnCbDU0) by Leela James, which is an extraordinary, beautiful song (which I never would have known about if it wasn't for you, Earl - thank you so much!) But, as these things happen, I was in the mood to write smut, so... this came about.

It’s all lips and tongues and hands - frenzied moment, clumsy with want.  And why the absolute  _ fuck _ does Anders have so many Maker-damned buckles?  Hawke gasps, Anders scrapes teeth along his neck and then grabs his waist roughly, trying to free himself of his boots without losing contact with Hawke’s body.  “Shit,” Hawke mutters, “Oh, Flames, Anders, just… just…”

 

“What? Slow down?” Anders asks, now pulling up Hawke’s robes.  The hem slides up his thighs,  onto his hips, exposing his smalls, and he wrenches Anders’ shirt open, hearing the short tear of the seam as he does.  Hawke shakes his head.  No, he doesn’t want to slow down, he doesn’t want to do anything of the sort, but his fingers and mouth both feel stupid with desire and he finally pants out, “No, fuck, just… just do me here.  I’m losing it, I can’t make it to the bed.”

 

Anders snorts laughter as he worms his hand into the front of Hawke’s pants, palming his stiff cock, grabbing it hard enough to make Hawke gasp again, lips pulling back from teeth in a sly grin.  “I love it when you say things like that.  It’s like music to me…”

“I’ve heard you play the lute, you don't know shit about music,” Hawke tells him, then moans as Anders works his hot hand over his length again.

Anders laughs, shunts Hawke up against the wall outside the bedroom, puts his thigh between Hawke’s.  Hawke ruts helplessly into his fist, and Anders smiles at him, “We can’t do it here.  I would really rather not have Bohdan, nice as he is, come upon us at an inopportune moment…”

 

“Oh, Maker, Anders, keep doing that, fuck… yeah, or Sandal…”  Hawke laughs, his breath short now, and he swallows and closes his eyes.  “Want you in me though, shit, Anders, please…”

“Yeah,”  Anders murmurs, and he takes Hawke’s hand from his hip and puts it on his cock.  Hawke moans and squeezes gently, and feels Anders’ hot breath on his neck.  Anders makes a small noise halfway between a groan and a grunt, and then pulls Hawke by the neck of his robes off the wall and into the bedroom.

 

And Maker, Hawke feels on fire with lust, this heat within threatening to take him over, he pushes off his smalls, Anders mouth on his, hands everywhere, he still has his robes on for fuck sakes, and it feels still so strange, so new and beautiful, even after all these years.  He kicks the door closed, almost as an afterthought, not even hearing the slam of it in the silent house.  Anders mouth tastes of ale and lyrium, his skin smells of ink and elfroot, and Hawke is so overwhelmed by the sense of unutterable need that he can only groan as Anders pulls him again by his collar, pulling Hawke down with him to his knees, pushing him gently back as he breaks the kiss.  Anders guides him down to the rug, not letting him fall, just gently guiding. Long fingers up under the skirts of his robe, pushing his legs apart, the fingers of his right hand already sticky with the grease that blooms there.  Hawke watches, almost insensible, as Anders pauses, stroking himself idly in the dim light of the embers of the fire, and then moans again, long and loud as Anders draws a slow circle over his hole with his other hand.  His chest heaves, he wants to speak, to tell Anders how much he needs him, but no words will come.  

 

Anders looks at him briefly and smiles gently, then slowly inches a finger up and into Hawke; the sensation is so good, he feels as if the world has stopped.  Hawke closes his eyes, hears Anders whisper, “Relax,” and remembers he should be breathing.  But Maker, oh Maker, this feeling, this, it is beyond perfect - everything has zoned down to his lover’s finger as it creeps forward and back, the slick making the motion perfect, wonderful.  Hawke focusses, and just as he does, Anders pushes a second finger in, slick sliding wetly down the crack of Hawke’s ass, deeper with the first finger, the second only in to the first knuckle.  “Hurry up,” Hawke croaks, and strokes his cock, hot now, the veins prominent under his palm.  He knows he won’t last if he keeps this up, so he pulls his hand away, clutching instead at the bunched fabric of his robes.  The feel of the thick wool anchors him, pulls him back, even as Anders’ next words send him skittering toward the precipice again.

 

“I like watching you,” Anders tells him, his tone breathy, distracted, “I like watching you play with yourself as I fuck you with my fingers.  I like the way your thighs shake a little every time I do this,” and he curls his first finger wickedly, exactly at the right spot, and Hawke hears the smile in his voice as he says, “Just like that, fuck that’s beautiful, love.  You’re beautiful.  I love you.”

“Love you too,” Hawke gasps, and then groans, opening his legs wider, arching his hips up.  “Feels so fucking good.  Want you, oh, oh, want you… in me.  When you come.  Please.  Please Anders, please…”

“You’re not ready…”

“Please, I can’t… I can’t wait, please…”

 

“Be patient, love,” Anders voice, gentle, soothing, as the second finger goes deeper to match the first, and Hawke shifts and sighs, trying to relax as Anders pulls the fingers within him gently apart.  And he tries, really he does; pulls his mind away from the act, has it float around the particularly nasty gash that Merrill had received today as they fought, and then to the thought of Knight Commander Meredith giving her little speech and then… oh,  _ oh _ , no, Anders is withdrawing his fingers, Maker, slowly, so slowly, and Hawke’s hand roves down his body again from where he had been clutching the fabric of his robes up under his ribs.  Rough wool of robes, soft skin of his own stomach, the coarse wire of the hair under his navel.  He feels the head of Anders’ cock at his entrance, and before Anders even asks, Hawke tells him, “Yes.”

 

And with a sigh, Anders pushes in.  “Anders,” Hawke moans, “Anders, oh…” and it is too much, he doesn’t know himself as the tears spill from his eyes, as Anders shifts, finding a gentle rhythm.  He grunts, and murmurs, “Love, oh my love.  Are… are you alright?  It’s not…”

“No, Maker, no,” Hawke sobs, and arches his hips up, bringing Anders deeper, tighter against him, clutching at him with both hands, before moving one back down to his own cock, “No, it’s… fuck, amazing, I love, love you.”  His breath grows short, and there is just the unconscious noises of their bodies, themselves as they fall into each other.  Hawke gasps, and his eyes fly open, a moment before his climax - he registers enough to see Anders’ face, eyes closed, beatific in his focus, hair a copper halo in the light of the dying fire, and knows he wants no-one else.  It’s new, the depth of this feeling, this bold love, but he feels it fiercely; claims it as his own even as he cries Anders name as he comes, as his own focus pulls down to that one, bright sensation.  

  
And then his eyes are closed, and Anders’ movements are harsher, quick thrusts up into Hawke.  His breath hitches, once, again, and then he pushes up slightly on his arms, head thrown back, throat exposed, mouth open but soundless.  Hawke watches this holy moment, and the knowledge of his love settles within him, growing.  He smiles as Anders lowers his head, watches as he blows out a shaky breath and blinks his eyes open.  They stare at each other there in the firelight, and Hawke reaches out to Anders, cups his damp cheek with one hand.  “My darling,” he tells Anders, and then all his words dry out on his tongue, and all he has left is nothing.  He wants to tell Anders how lonely he’s felt, how utterly hunted and ashamed of what he is for so long, and that to find someone who not only accepts who he is, what he is, his magic, but loves him the more for it… it is inexplicable to him.  The moment is too large for those thoughts, and so Hawke swallows the words back down, smiles weakly.  Anders smiles back, nuzzles into his hand and as he looks into Hawke’s eyes, he tells Hawke, “I know, my love.  Me too.”


End file.
